My Immortal (9 page)

She whispered in his ear, while I stood there, frozen in shock. Her thick black hair trailed loosely down over the back of her bold red dress, which had a Grecian line to it and a high waist, no stays. It clung to her everywhere and I was suddenly inexplicably jealous of her health, her vitality, the clear sensuality she exuded, the way she sank her teeth into my husband’s ear and smiled a delicious little satisfied smirk.

Damien turned then, looking unconcerned to see me. “Good evening, Marie. Care to join us?”

What to say? What to do when forced to face his clear insouciance? I could only think what my behavior had been, my disgust at his physical attentions, my lack of concern for my appearance, my all-consuming grief and refusal to speak, and how for all my ladylike pretensions, breeding, and notions of self-worth, I was now jealous of a raven-haired harlot.

I fled back into the house.

But here is where I shall shock you, Angelique. I did not return to bed. Instead, I hesitated inside the foyer, then found myself moving to the first window to the left of the door. From behind the glass of the morning room, hidden by the drapery, I watched them, together under the gaslight of the porch lamp.

My interruption was clearly of no import to them. In the time it had taken me to tiptoe softly to the window, they had resumed their former activities, more aggressively than before. My husband had the front of that shocking red dress pulled down, and I saw quite clearly the roundness of her
breasts, the darker circle of her nipples, before his mouth covered them.

What amazed me, what seemed so extraordinary, was that they were standing up locked together, that they both looked so violent in their pleasure. There was jerking and tugging and heads tilted back, eyes rolling in ecstasy. She had her hand clasped around Damien’s manhood, moving up and down with slow, languorous strokes, and I found myself resentful that doing such a thing had never occurred to me.

What Damien and I did—it was quick and efficient, conducted in the dark with little conversation.

What they were doing was totally different, and it was oh so utterly wicked, wrong in every sense of the word, but for the first time I saw the appeal, for the first time I felt an awakening in my own body, a heavy, tingling sort of anticipation as I watched. When Damien sucked hard on her nipples, my own ached beneath my nightrail. When she moved over him, faster and faster until he pushed her away, my own heart rate increased until I could hear the quick rushes of my panting breath.

Even when the rain began to fall, soaking her dress, his shirt, forcing linen to cling to taut breasts and rippling muscle, they did not hesitate, did not stop. Damien shook the rain from his face, and she tilted her head back, as if she exalted in the mist that flowed cool over her hot, aroused body.

I felt that I should stop watching, that I should leave them alone in their debauchery, but I couldn’t look away. I couldn’t tear my eyes from their explosive passion, from the connection that flowed between them, the whispered murmurs that I couldn’t hear, but could see, in the form of their lips moving urgently.

Then her dress was around her waist, legs wrapped around his, Damien’s back against the porch post. They surged together. It was not him solely pushing into her, nor her sliding onto him, but a total collision of the two, and
even from my hiding space behind the glass and wood, I could hear their mutual moans of pleasure.

Clinging to the curtain, a novel heat pooling between my thighs, I breathed hard, watching my husband thrust himself into that woman, over and over, while I wished most shamefully that it were me.

Marley jerked on the bed when her cell phone rang. She dropped the letter she’d been reading and moved quickly to the desk, hoping it was Lizzie or at least Rachel calling with news.

It was from a local area code. “Hello?” she said, her mouth thick, eyes dry from poring over Marie’s letters.

“Are you hungry?”

Damien’s voice was low, charming, seductive. Marley rubbed her damp palm on her jeans. He hadn’t waited long. She’d only left him late that morning, after she had promised to show up next Saturday for another party. And yet he was already pursuing her, just as he had threatened.

“Why? What are you suggesting?” Marley was stiff, her neck and back sore, her thoughts jumbled and muddled, her heart filled with worry and sorrow for her sister and for the long-dead Marie.

Damien laughed. “Dinner. To start with. Unless you have a better idea.”

While Marley had basically decided to have sex with Damien, and soon, she had also decided it would be on her terms, for her reasons, for personal empowerment and liberation. Having him come up to her small hotel room wasn’t appealing or arousing in the least.

Neither did she think she wanted to be alone. Marie’s pain, the tragedy of losing her baby, reached through the centuries and ate at Marley. She understood that burn, that ache to be a mother, to feel a child growing within her, to anticipate holding a baby in her arms. She had mourned with Marie, felt her anguish. It made her own longing rise again in great tumultuous waves, a craving so fierce and earnest that she felt stunned, melancholy, a bit desperate.

Heaped onto her concern for Lizzie, Marley felt knots of tension forming in her temples, her forehead. She needed to get out of the hotel room, away from her own thoughts and feelings. “I guess that’s fine. Do I have to get dressed up?”

“Your enthusiasm is flattering,” he said, though he sounded more amused than irritated. “No, you don’t have to dress up. We’ll go somewhere casual.”

“What time?”

“Five minutes. I’m right outside your hotel.”

Marley flushed. He hadn’t been kidding when he’d said he was going to chase. “Oh, okay. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

“Perfect.”

They hung up and Marley chanced a glance in the mirror. Yikes. She’d returned from Rosa de Montana and had showered, but she hadn’t spent much time with the blow dryer. Now her hair was frizzy, her skin pale, and she still had black circles under her eyes from the martini incident. In an effort to distract attention from her facial flaws, she threw on the one skirt she’d packed, a floral cotton, and paired it with a sleeveless white knit top that clung tighter than most of her T-shirts. For Marley, allowing anything to delineate her breasts was a major concession, and she hoped Damien would appreciate exactly what the effort cost her.

The closest thing she had to lipstick was a dessert-scented lipgloss, so she slid that on, stepped into sandals, grabbed her purse, and went downstairs, leaving Marie’s letters tucked safely in her suitcase.

Damien was already waiting in the lobby. She saw him the minute the elevator doors opened and she exited. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected—maybe him pacing anxiously, or at least standing there looking impatient, or even lounging in a chair drinking coffee and reading the paper. Instead, he was talking to the desk clerk, a pale blonde whose laughter could be heard all the way across the lobby.

Unfamiliar, unpleasant feelings reared up and threw Marley. God, she was jealous, and she hated it. Yet that didn’t stop her from strolling up to him and announcing, “Sorry I took so long. I’m ready to leave. Now.”

The desk clerk looked startled, but Damien only pulled his elbows off the desk, turned, and smiled. “I didn’t mind the wait, you were hardly a minute.” He turned back to the blonde. “Thank you so much for your help, Renee. Have a great day.”

She took the business card he was pushing over the desk to her. Her cheeks were pink, eyes sparkling. “My pleasure.”

Annoyance made Marley speak without thinking as she strode down the steps to the front door. “Inviting her to the party? Or lining up your next conquest for after I’m gone?”

Damien didn’t react to her obvious anger. He just put his hand on the small of her back and leaned closer to her. “Green is not your color.”

That he’d seen right through her made her irritation that much more annoying. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Renee expressed interest in Rosa de Montana. I offered her a tour.”

“How nice.” She could have stopped right there. But her mouth opened again. “You’ve never offered me a tour.” Now why the hell did she say that? She sounded like the insecure, jealous woman that she was.

Damien moved in front of her, cutting her off. He slipped his hand lower down her back, to the first hint of the curvature of her backside, while his eyes locked with hers, dark and determined. “Marley. I’ll give you whatever you want. Just ask for it.”

He wasn’t talking about the tour, she knew that. But she wasn’t ready for this yet, knew that it was too easy still for him to tip the balance in his favor, that she wasn’t in control, didn’t own the situation.

“Thanks. I’d love a tour of the plantation.” She glanced around his shoulder, striving for casual. “Did you drive or are we walking somewhere?”

“We can walk.” His tone matched hers for nonchalance as he opened the front door to the hotel for her, nodding pleasantly to the bellman. “I just thought we’d go down the street and pick a place. Your choice. There’s a dozen restaurants within walking distance. The French Quarter is at your service.”

“Sounds good.” The day was cooling down, but it was still hot. Marley pulled a band out of her purse and yanked her hair back. She twisted it up into a bun, figuring the frizz would only get worse in the humidity. “What kind of food do you like?”

They had passed a rather innocuous looking café and an antique shop.

“Anything. I’m easy. If you’re up for trying the local cuisine, there’s a place on the corner here that’s good. Silly name, good food.”

She nodded, feeling warm in the fading heat, distracted.

“So why did you choose the Hotel Monteleone?” he asked. “It’s a very nice hotel, a bit expensive for a trip such as yours.”

“The first three hotels I called didn’t have rooms available on such short notice. And I didn’t have time to look for any more. I needed a place to stay and I really wanted to stay in the French Quarter.” Though she had to admit, the hefty room rate was preying on her. She was going to rack up a couple of grand in bills between the hotel, rental car, and food by the time she got Lizzie home.

“Teachers are notoriously underpaid.”

Marley carefully watched where she was walking. The sidewalks had random holes in them that would have her down on her knees in a flash if she weren’t careful. “That’s true. But I love my job.”

Damien pointed to the corner. “That’s the place I was talking about. We can sit in the courtyard if you’d like.”

“Sure.” Though how he could look so fresh when she felt sweaty and wilted was truly a gender injustice. “Have you always lived here, on the plantation? Did you grow up in the big house?” Maybe that would explain his being so unaffected by the heat.

“Actually, my school years were spent in France at boarding school. I lived in the
maison principale
as a child, but now I mostly stay in the
pigeonnier
. It’s compact and convenient.”

“It’s small though. I can’t imagine living there when you have that whole huge intriguing house you could be in.” She could wander for weeks and never get tired of exploring it.

Damien stopped to open the door to the restaurant. He glanced over at her. “It’s too big for one person.”

There seemed to be a world of information in that sentence if Marley wanted to play shrink.

“Besides, I need Internet access and electricity, and it was difficult enough wiring the
pigeonnier
. It would cost millions to update the house to modern standards, and it doesn’t seem worth the expense.”

Marley didn’t answer because a cheerful hostess was greeting them. A minute later, they were seated outside on the patio and Marley was shaking her head no to wine. Just the thought of drinking any form of alcohol made her stomach lurch. She wasn’t completely recovered from her first unplanned foray into drugs the night before.

“I am sorry about last night,” Damien said after the waitress left, like he understood where her thoughts had gone. “I hope you’re feeling okay.”

“I’m fine. Just a little leery of drinking tonight. But don’t let that stop you from ordering whatever you want.”

But Damien shook his head. “I don’t drink much anymore. Not even when I’m entertaining.”

Marley snapped open the menu, not sure if there was censure in his voice or not, but definitely not wanting to revisit the sex party and all the confusing feelings it had aroused in her. “So what do you do for a living, Damien? What did they teach you at that French boarding school?”

She meant it to be light, a change of subject. But it sounded a little sharp. Like she thought he was a rich snob. Damien had a hell of a poker face, though, because he didn’t react at all. He just smiled.

“I learned the usual. Literature, math, world history, French, how to do as little as humanly possible and maintain average grades, and how to sneak out of my room at night to meet girls. But in the end I must have learned something, because I make my living designing websites. I own a design firm.”

“And you enjoy that? It’s successful?” Marley was thinking about how many webpages you’d have to design to pay the taxes on the plantation.

“I consider it successful. We don’t do individual designs, we only do major corporations who need a multitude of functions and applications on their site. Our designs start at ten grand and quickly go up from there.”

“Oh, wow. I’m impressed.” She was. He wasn’t the lazy playboy sponging off family money the way she had assumed. “And you work at home most of the time?”

“Yes. I am more productive that way, working on my own terms, by myself.” Damien eyed her steadily. “I don’t play nice with others.”

Marley laughed. “You like everything to be your way?”

“Yes. And so do you.”

“What?” Marley set down her iced tea, forgoing a sip. “I do not!”

“Of course you do. You want your mother, your sister, your father, to do exactly what you want them to.”

Well, that was rude. And totally untrue. Marley’s cheeks went hot with anger. “I want to help my family. I want to take care of them, not dictate to them.”

“But essentially you’re telling them the way they are doing it is wrong and they should do it your way. But I would guess your sister is happy living her life the way she does.”

“But she puts herself in danger, she does things and they’re stupid, and she ne—” Marley stopped speaking, took a breath to calm herself. “She doesn’t make wise choices for her son.”

“It seems to me the wisest choice she made was to leave her son with your cousin. The rest of the mistakes are hers and hers alone, and I bet she doesn’t even consider them mistakes. Only you do.”

His words rang true to her, and she resented it. Why was she the bad guy here? She was the one who just wanted Lizzie to have a happy, healthy, productive life. Why did that make her a control freak? “Would you let your sister disappear for two months with no word and not try to find her? Is that what you’re suggesting? That I just assume she’s fine and living it up and go about my business?” Because she couldn’t do that. She had to know that Lizzie was alright. She couldn’t ignore the foreboding feeling that had taken up permanent residence in her gut.

“Of course not. I know how worried you are. But chances are, she is off having fun, stripping on Bourbon Street or something, and will be surprised to find out that you’ve wasted one minute worrying about her, because if your roles were reversed, she wouldn’t. If it were my sister, I would do exactly what you’re doing, but then I admit I’m controlling. Or I try to be. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that you cannot control someone else.” Damien raised his wineglass in a mock toast. “Most of us can’t even control ourselves, let alone someone else.”

Was he talking about himself? Marley had no idea what he could or couldn’t control. But she did know she didn’t agree. “Maybe I can’t force Lizzie to do what she doesn’t want to, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be there to support her.”

“I respect that. I admire you, Marley, for your love and loyalty to your family. But are any of them grateful for the sacrifices you make? You’re spending, what, like five hundred bucks a day while you’re here trying to find your sister, bleeding yourself dry financially and emotionally. Would any of them do it for you?”

No. She knew the answer as clearly as she knew her name. But she didn’t need him to tell her she was wrong, to mock her choices. “I don’t do it for gratitude. I do it because I love my family, because it’s the right thing to do. It’s not about me.”

Though hadn’t she just spent the whole summer wondering why it was never about her? Pondering if her role as family martyr was the right thing to do, or if she was merely denying herself a full and complete life at the same time she played enabler to her screwed-up relatives?

“It should be,” Damien said, his shoulders stiff, voice firm. “For once, just once, it should be.”

“Is it about you, Damien?” All her anger had deflated. God, he was right, and she was so tired. Just so absolutely bone-deep tired. She had spent twenty years trying to fix people who didn’t want to be fixed, but how the hell could she just walk away? It felt wrong, too selfish.

“When I was younger, it was about me. Always about me. I was a spoiled rich kid, I’m ashamed to admit. I was thoughtless and selfish, but I made a huge mistake, one that I’ve been paying for ever since. And that mistake taught me it’s not about me. Ever. I fight every day to remember that.”

He looked sincere, eyes burning with agony and passion for his convictions. Marley had known all along there was more to Damien than what he showed the world, she had seen that pain, sensed that desolation, but now, it pulsed from him in a great ugly wave of raw emotion.